


A Court of Conquest

by MissThang17



Series: Parks and Thrones [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: F/F, F/M, Inspired by Game of Thrones, M/M, Multi, South Park: The Stick of Truth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissThang17/pseuds/MissThang17
Summary: The lands of Zaron, a prosperous country united under a single kingship, face the trials of betrayals and rebellions. The rule of a tyrannical king is challenged by a northern lord, a family in exile, and those he holds in council. The hand of the king, once a decorated knight, must now learn the subtle warfare of words, and promises not kept. The fate of the five kingdoms is torn between Boar, Hound, Dagger and Plover.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This work is inspired by the Stick of Truth universe, as well as the wildly popular Song of Ice and Fire series by George RR Martin. All rights belong to them. This story will be one of a series, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. As always, like, bookmark and comment. 
> 
> Side note: Canada, in the context of this work, is a fictional place in the world of this story, and bears no relation to the real world country of the same name. This fic also employs the A/B/O dynamic, but it is not heavily referenced or noted beyond a more streamlined means of noble succession.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This work is inspired by the Stick of Truth universe, as well as the wildly popular Song of Ice and Fire series by George RR Martin. All rights belong to them. This story will be one of a series, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. As always, like, bookmark and comment.
> 
> Side note: Canada, in the context of this work, is a fictional place in the world of this story, and bears no relation to the real world country of the same name. This fic also employs the A/B/O dynamic, but it is not heavily referenced or noted beyond a more streamlined means of noble succession.

In the land of Zaron, where the fields were verdant and the skies and oceans vast, there resided five kingdoms. In the east, there was the wooded Marshhollow, where the great Marshwalker family resided, controlling the country’s supply of grain and livestock. To the north lied Northhelm, a snowy, mountainous kingdom surrounded by rock and ice. House Donovan ruled over these lands under the authority of the king, making weapons of war. Beyond their borders lied the strange frozen country whose name was near impossible to pronounce in the Zarnon language, mostly commonly referred to as the closest sounding title: Canada. In the far west, the flat plains of Highpaddock were home to the House of Black, who had usurped House McCormick in the midst of a rebellion six years prior. The Blacks held the nation’s coin, being the wealthiest house, and held complete control of the silk trade. Past the shores of Highpaddock, the small island kingdom of Skeri was home to House Tucker, who controlled fishing, importing and exporting from the western countries. 

And to the south, in the largest part of Zaron, sat the proud kingdom of Kupa Keep, the center of human advancement and home to King Cartman, first of his name, ruler of men and Head Wizard of the Council of Magic. The Wizard King held dominion over the other kingdoms, uniting them under his rule, and stripped the former kingdoms of their sovereignty some hundred years ago. 

It was here the announcement of the death of Scott Malkinson, Hand of the King, had been made. He had been executed by the king himself, wielding his large oak staff and igniting the Hand. He had been accused of treason, relaying messages and support to the McCormicks overseas. 

Ser Stan Marshwalker, the Alpha Knight of Kupa Keep, had been selected as the new hand. He had proven himself a champion in battle, squashing the Western rebellion led by the House McCormick alongside House Black, and became the youngest alpha to rise to the rank of Alpha Knight. Though he loved his country, he did not love his king. 

“He’s a madman; who’s to say he won’t have me killed as soon as I take the job?” 

“S’pose then you won’t have to worry ‘bout the job.” 

Stan glared at Ser Thomas Black, younger brother of Lord Token of Highpaddock. “This is serious; the Knights of the Keep can’t be trusted to run on their own, not without an Alpha Knight.” 

“Probably you’ll have to do both. I understand your grief, Ser Stanley; should any misfortune fall upon my brother, I am to replace my father as Master of Coin upon his death.” 

“A sad day indeed, you can’t even count to twenty.” 

“Piss off.” 

Stan left the knight’s quarters, his large frame surprisingly silent. He reached a balcony, carved into the keep with ivory and marble, looking out onto the Humble Sea. When Stan was a child, he had longed to live on Skeri, out on the sea day and night, going on daring adventures across the water. From the perch, Stan could catch the faintest whiff of the sea air and, not for the first time since his arrival in Kupa Keep, dreamed of freedom. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

In the stronghold of Northhelm, on a dreary day full of snow, Lord Clyde of House Donovan gazed out upon the white expanse of land, the few crops they managed to grow there turning to ice under the harsh climate. 

“The skies become increasingly unfavorable with each winter, perhaps it is our cowardice that makes it so.” 

Clyde had earned the reputation of the “Melancholy King,” often taken to sorrowful moods and the occasional paroxysms of sobbing during court. He was too young to remember the rise of the Wizard King; the uprising having taken place nearly one hundred years before. The speculations that the King may be immortal by relation to the elves seemed to hold truth with every year that his youth persisted. 

Though Clyde knew of no life outside of the Wizard’s control, his grandfather knew, and had told his stories of hardy forests bearing the sweetest fruit and a city brimming with technological advancements to his son, who had in turn passed them down to Clyde. He had held firm in his belief, as his father and grandfather before him had, that the misfortunes that had fallen upon his once great kingdom were the result of the North’s submission to the crown, having not even the strength to fight back as the other kingdoms had. Historians spoke of the North’s bending of the knee as the pivotal moment in the Wizard winning the war over Zaron. Without the North’s advanced weaponry, the other kingdoms had bent the knee shortly after, and no sooner had the crown rested on the Wizard’s large head that the suffering of the North began. 

“We traded our autonomy and our pride for salvation promised to us by a tyrant,” Clyde spat. “Our character was weak, and so our lands became weak as well.” 

Behind him, paying the Lord Donovan little mind, Craig of House Tucker rolled his eyes, throwing daggers into the air and catching them upon their descent. “The land is untenable due to the air; it is too frigid here to sustain life. Move your crops southward and they will flourish. I come from fishing stock and I knew that.” 

Clyde growled in annoyance. “If I move my crops south, I must also move my army south to defend them from the Moorish tribes, who would poach all that we grow, all with no assistance or assurance of recompense from our fat king.” 

Craig’s slate grey eyes tracked Clyde’s pacing, tempted to throw one of his daggers at the beta. “You would have made an excellent clergyman; your imposing speeches of retribution and divine upsets are as rousing as they are sanctimonious.” 

The northern lord turned to his old friend, “And what would you have me do? I have no power beyond my musings and my frozen crops.” 

Craig’s tone was dry and passive as he spoke. 

“Revolt.” 

Clyde snorted. “That didn’t work too well for the McCormicks; Lord Stuart and his men were defeated and exiled in two months' time.” 

It had been a short rebellion, taking place only six years prior. The King had demanded the heads of every McCormick, choosing instead to exile them only after being convinced by the now dead Hand. 

“You have twice the men, a better reputation and control over the nation’s weapons. You could do it properly.” 

Clyde turned. “If I am to do this, you must accompany me. You are my oldest friend; I trust you with my life.” 

Craig gave him a look that could’ve been a smile. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

Clyde grinned. “We’ll call the banners together. Let’s see what the Wizard makes of us after this.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

To the West, beyond Skeri and the Obsidian Sea, Princess Kenny of House McCormick moved gracefully through the halls of Ostrakeep, her gown flowing behind her as the winds of the tropics began to pick up. It was mild and pleasant on the island of Stonecliff, though the princess knew the cities and badlands from Barbosht to further west would be arid and dry this time of year. She reached the throne room, where her father, in his last few years, had erected a throne out of the iron from their ship and gold, which he had procured from the mines and had melted to filigree. The seat was covered in fine silks and furs, and truly was as ostentatious and horrid as the man who had made it. 

Her brother Kevin, who had in his father’s passing declared himself King of Barbaria, sat atop the throne, his worn clothing and battle scars overtaken by the decadence of the chair. 

“Sister, you disappoint me. I ask you to marry the king of the savages and even this you deny me. Our family’s reign depends on your willingness to strengthen our allies.” 

Kenny narrowed her eyes, deep purple glaring at dull blue. “Unless you plan on chaining me to the Khal’s bed, I shall not whore myself out to suit your needs. Alliances can be made without selling your sister.” 

Kevin sneered down at her. “Let us not forget how you came to be a ‘princess,’ dear sister. Had the shamans not done what I asked of them, you would still be wearing Mother’s old gowns, cradling your cock between your legs.” 

Ignoring his sister’s furious expression, he dismissed her. “If you will not marry Khal Mole, you shall spearhead the negotiations. I will not be in the presence of that filthy creature unless I have to be.” 

The princess stormed out of the room, heading for her chambers.The guards quickly noted her expression and gave her a wide berth; the princess was a kind and just lady but she had a temper that could rival that of the False King of Zaron. As she passed, her eyes flicked up to the tapestries that they had managed to save from their home.

They depicted the McCormick's ascension to power in Zaron. Her ancestor, Osman McCormick, had set sail to Zaron from Barbosht, following the collapse of the Old Cities and the end of the Orcish Empire. They had found plains that stretched far, and animals grazing and frolicking about. They tamed horses thrice the size of men, and stags who could understand the languages of Men. The built their home, and became a kingdom in their own right, taking in merchants and livestock farmers, living a life of peace in an age of endless Spring. 

That was many years ago, however, and there was no Springtime to be found here. Upon entering her chambers, Kenny found her sister Karen who, though had her own separate chambers, spent most of her time playing with dolls on her sister’s bed. 

“Kevin made you mad again,” She commented. 

The princess sat in front of her vanity, brushing out her hair. “I’m always mad at Kevin, he only reminds me of it.” 

Karen made a noise that could have been a sigh. “I wish you two could get along, being a princess is no fun if every is mad at each other.” 

Kenny peered at her sister through the mirror, tugging at her golden strands as she did. “Everything will be alright. We have warm beds and full bellies and each other, not even the Grand Wizard can take that from us.” 


	2. Chapter Two

The throne room of Kupa Keep, in the last century of the wizard’s rule, had undergone a massive transformation. Once only a stone chamber with plain windows and a humble wooden throne, the center of the palace had been reimagined with large windows of stained glass, large banners presenting the royal sigil of a boar's head, ornate columns framing the space and, positioned atop a flight of imposing steps, sat a glittering throne of gold and jewels. Upon the chair, weighing about as much as a baby elephant, the Wizard King Eric Cartman gazed down upon Ser Stanley.

“Alpha Knight Stan, of House Marshwalker, now Hand of the King. This must surely be a great day for you.”

Stan willed his expression into one of neutrality, holding back his sneer. “Indeed, although a rather shocking one. I am humbled and surprised by your Grace’s decision; I have never been known for my diplomacy.”

“No, though you are well regarded by your superiors as a keen mind with a good heart, just what I need in times like these.”

The king stood from his throne, ambling down the precarious steps to the floor below, his considerable weight jiggling and bouncing with every step he took.

“There have been rumors of a revolt from the North, Lord Donovan is a weak man, but his armies are not. If he should decide to stop the flow of weapons to the kingdom and instead use them against us, well, best not to think too hard on the matter. You and the rest of the council will be responsible for dealing with this issue.”

The king had Ser Stan follow him into the council room, where the others members had been assembled.

The council room was small and intimate, with one wall opened completely to a large balcony overlooking the Humble Sea. Assembled at the table were a group of men, most older than Stan by some several years.

“I believe you already know Lord Black well, having fought alongside his sons during the battle of Highpaddock," Cartman introduced. "And Lord Mephesto is our Master of Whispers, t’was he who warned me of Donovan’s treachery. And Lord Mackey is our Master of Trade, he keeps the traders of the East and the West in line.”

Stan was directed to his seat, and Cartman sat at the head of the table, his eyes flicking between his councilmen.

“Now then, what is to be done with Donovan?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Tell me the names of the known countries.”

“Zaron, Larnion, Barbaria, Canada and Pyros.”

“And their capital kingdoms?”

“Kupa Keep, Viridi, Barbosht, Ottowa and....Pyruvia?”

“Pyrva. And the races of Earth?”

“Man, Elf and Orc; are we done here?”

Acolyte Maron sighed. “You know you must complete your basic courses before we move on to advanced studies.”

“I came to the Academy to learn magic, not geography,” the black-haired boy spat.

“And learn it you shall, though I dare say these days geography will do you better; the only magic user in Zaron of any true ability is our king.”

Firkle sneered at the older man. “My great great grandmother was Marna the Mad; she was the strongest blood magic user in all the five kingdoms.”

“We are no longer five, but one, and magic has been dwindling in our lands for some time. The shamans of Barbaria are losing their power as well, I’m told.”

“Then I’ll live with the elves and practice my arts in a tree.”

“Elves have different magics from humans, you know this.”

“Then I’ll set sail for the Barrens and tame a bloody dragon!”

The acolyte laughed. “You are a stubborn one. Come now, one more lesson and we’ll be done for the day. Name the bodies of water surrounding Zaron.”

“The Obsidian, the Triad, the Stillwater......”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The island of Skeri was grey and dreary, the clouds constantly overhead and a generous layer of fog skirting the shores throughout most of the day. The stronghold of the island was Torrent Hall, a great obelisk punching through to the clouds above. Through one of the windows, Tricia Tucker, Lady of Skeri, shot stones from her sling at birds who ventured close enough.

“My lady, please, we have a message from your brother.”

The girl rolled her eyes, pocketing her sling in the folds of her dress. “If it was really important, the dour clod would come home and say it himself.”

The girl lifted a pale finger up to Lord Collins, her advisor, taking the scroll from him with her other hand. She scanned its contents.

“Do you know why House Tucker has held the isle of Skeri for five hundred years?”

“No, my Lady.”

“It’s because everyone in my family, every man, every woman, every babe on his mother’s breast, is a stubborn ass. Argo Tucker, first king of Skeri, was an ass. My father, Lord Thomas Tucker, ass. And my brother Craig is the most stubborn ass on this half of the country.”

“My Lady?”

“He wants our ships, all of them. And he wants to give them to the King of the North.”

"We cannot afford this," Lord Collins remarked. "We need our ships for trade, and defending our shores."

Tricia looked to him, and Collins was reminded very much of the girl's brother and father, the way she fixed such a cold stare upon him.

"Our sigil is a trio of daggers for a reason, Lord Collins. Before our family settled this isle and made a kingdom out of salt air and wooden ships, we were the most infamous assassin clan in Spearpoint. My ancestors would cut the throat of any man on this side of the world, armed with only daggers and dark magic."

That was some five hundred years ago, as you said, my lady," Collins pointed out. "Nor are we in Pyros; neither you nor your brother are cut throats."

"No, but I do rule this island in his stead, and if he believes that Donovan can win this war, then I shall support him."

She turned back towards the window, watching as ravenous birds of prey pecked and feasted on the dead birds she had shot down. "Send him whatever he needs; as of now, House Tucker is at war."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The palace at Stonecliff had been designed for necessity, and not necessarily luxury. Its halls were modest, its towers short and blunt. The council room was the largest in the palace, surpassing the throne room by some few feet. Large open windows looked out onto the isle that separated the island from the main lands of Barbaria. The room itself held a large table made from the stone pulled out of the island, and could seat at least thirty people if need be. At the head of the table, Princess Kenny represented her brother as ruler of Stonecliff; next to her sat Adler, a heavyset man who had been advisor to her father. Opposite her sat Mole, Chieftain of the nomadic warriors known as the Barbarians. Next him, a middle-aged man of fair skin and militant demeanor sat as his advisor.

Another exile from Zaron, perhaps, the princess surmised.

“Khal Mole, Chieftain of the Barbarians of Barbaria, I welcome you. As Princess of Stonecliff, and sister to the rightful ruler of Zaron, I shall lead the negotiations for your army to aid in my brother’s taking of Kupa Keep.”

The man next to the Khal spoke rapidly in a harsh language familiar but untraceable to the princess. The Khal responded in the same harsh tongue.

“The Khal thanks you for your hospitality, but wonders why the king himself does not stand here begging for an army.”

Kenny breathed through her nose, holding her tongue and temper. “Neither he nor I are begging for your army, Khal Mole; we seek to come to an arrangement. Our family has old ties to the capital of Barbosht. We can offer you lands and riches, if it pleases you.”

She waited for her message to be relayed.

“The Khal says he has no need of your connections.” The man smiled. “Forgive me, princess, but the tribes of Barbaria do not ask or obtain what they desire the way we do in Zaron; they take lands and riches through sackings and bloodshed. A Barbarian must earn his rewards.”

She gave the man a wry smile. “Then he shall have it. Share your army with us, Khal, and together our forces will pillage and sack every city in Barbaria. When we’re done here, we will move East to Zaron, and do the same there.”

The Khal smiled as he heard the princess’ offer, turning to address her directly for the first time during their meeting.

“I like you,” the common language heavy and thick on his tongue, Kenny found the sound nearly as pleasant as his dominant language.

Looking to her advisor, knowing she made good footing, she responded.

“Do we have a deal?”


	3. Chapter Three

“Lord Marsh? A word?”

Stan looked up from the paperwork that littered his new chambers to see Token Black, Lord of  Highpaddock , smiling at him in a way that wasn’t altogether friendly. “Certainly, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence in the Keep?”

“I had some business with my father, and thought I should pay my old friend a visit while here.”

Stan abandoned his papers and dull readings, grateful for any reprieve from his new duties as Hand, and followed Lord Black out into the gardens that overlooked a majority of the city. 

The Garden of Andros held a special place in the kingdom: it was here that many betrayals and conspiracies took place over the past four hundred years that it stood. There were lush thickets of exotic plants at every turn, the flowers there enchanted to stay vibrant and strong throughout even the winter months.

“I don’t think I could ever get used to the heat here in the south, after the mild temperatures at the Black Estate; Lady  Black insisted on accompanying me to ‘warm her blood,’ as it were.”

Stan grit his teeth at the mention of her. “Wendy never was one for cooler weather. Her time spent in Marshhollow was rather miserable for her in the winter months.”

“Ah, yes! I had quite forgotten the two of you grew up together. Though I dare say living with her in adulthood is far more difficult.”

It had been the first time Lord Black had been brazen enough to broach the subject of Stan and Wendy’s acquaintance since the two were wed. Stan had been informed by a squire of the wedding, and had only attended out of respect for the girl he had loved all his life. Token had, though Stan doubt he remembers it, gotten drunk at the wedding and gloated to him about his winning of Wendy’s heart. The Hand had not seen the now Lady Black since the nuptials, and was quite content to avoid her.

“My father told me of the trouble up North with House Donovan. Do you think the king sees it as a real threat? And what of the exiled McCormicks? They’ve taken up with the Barbarians, I’ve heard.”

Stan shrugged. “Couldn’t say for certain; the king keeps most things to himself.”

Token checked the area before lowering his voice. “I’ve heard disturbing rumors from within the capital. Ghastly things about the King and Queen Regent. They say the wizard’s mother still clings to this world, old and wizened and half mad, kept locked up in the upper wings of the Keep, alongside the Lady Turner.”

Stan stiffened. “The Lady Turner is free to roam about the castle, I find her most often in the library with Mephesto, whispering about old empires and their favorite flavors of pie. She is a quiet but kind girl, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation she is prisoner here. As to the Queen Regent, who can say? She is alive, but none know whether or not she is conscious." 

"I hear she lays in eternal slumber, enchanted by her son."

"Such rumors are dangerous to those who spread them, Lord Black. I’d advise discretion when opening your mouth.” 

Token shot the Hand a hard look, before plucking a rose from the nearest bush. “I suppose you’re right; no point in feeding idle gossip. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this flower will look lovely in my wife’s hair, and I mean to give it to her at once.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“ _ Ignituum _ _ . _ "

At once a fire sprang from the fire pit, roaring and spitting embers as it burned. 

“Impressive, most beginners are unable to light more than a match, and even that takes months of practice,” Acolyte Maron commented.

Firkle smirked. “I told you, I’m a natural mage.”

Maron rolled his eyes playfully. “Now, now, ‘tis only a bit of fire. Come and brag to me when you can bind shadows and see through the crows like Henrietta.”

Firkle turned to him. “It’s unusual she should be so powerful, since none have been more than parlor magicians since the Wizard, right?”

“Correct, our King is believed to be the last great magic user of our race, now that the dragons are gone from our lands. Perhaps Henrietta is a sign of the resurgence of our kind. Perhaps you are, as well.”

Firkle gave the man a rare, genuine smile. “I hope so.”

He left the room where they had practiced, following the long, narrow hallways back to his chambers. Unlike the rest of the Academy, which had been re-imagined in the last hundred years or so, the hallways leading to the student quarters, much like the old passageways, were relics from when the Academy was first built, carved by magic out of mountain and gibber stone. Many of his fellow academics complained about the claustrophobic halls; however, Firkle loved them. To him, it was as if he were scouring an ancient crypt for treasures and undead creatures, or burrowing down into a mountain in search of a dragon’s lair. Such were the adventures had by Marna and her ilk, many years past, when dragons would fly over Zaron and elves still fought alongside men.

He came to the living quarters, noticing Filmore was standing guard this day. He put on his most charming smile and greeted the warrior, winking at him as he passed. As he entered the living quarters, he spied the slightest hint of a blush on the guard’s cheeks, just barely visible beneath his helmet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were many perks to staying in  Northhelm , Craig realized.

His extended stay in the North meant his sister was charged with the day to day affairs of managing Torrent Hall, and, while he may receive the odd raven seeking his guidance from their advisors, he was left relatively alone. It also meant he had a better working knowledge of Clyde’s rebellion plans. So far, Lord Donovan had rallied all the strongholds and villages in the North to his cause, and had been gathering support from the small villages south of their borders. 

Craig knew that Clyde did not have the resolve to keep his rebellion going on his own, and the loyalty to his oldest friend had kept him in  Northhelm most of all. Craig might not have been the fiercest of warriors, but he was a cold and ruthless tactician, and planned to strategize most, if not all, of the battles to come. As he moved silently towards the War Room, he spotted the Donovan’s bastard lurking in one of the passageways.

All bastards of  Zaron were given horrid names, often derived from curse words, and no family names to symbolize their lowest ranking in society. A bastard of nobility might be allowed to live inside a castle, eat good food and avoid the working life of a peasant, but they were far from considered high born. Such was the Donovan bastard, Douchebag, a boy of sixteen with dull brown hair grown down to his shoulders, and teeth that were beginning to yellow. He was never found without his dog, a large white creature with thick fur and warm almond eyes. Craig had found it quite funny that such a sweet, friendly animal should belong to a reclusive mute. 

The two made eye contact, and Douchebag scurried away to another dark, isolated part of the castle. Craig sighed; should he ever come across the bastard’s mother, he’d have him dumped on her doorstep without a second thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Were it not for the mediating she would have to do, Princess Kenny would’ve found her brother’s protests at the Barbarians looting their valuables and grunting orders at the servants  laughable. As such, she would have to soothe her brother’s temper while packing for the journey. She’d also have to ensure that Karen was only bring ing the necessary  travelling items, and not her collection of elven dolls. 

There were days when Kenny missed her mother more than others: when she needed guidance on her new body, when her brother was cruel and she had no one to comfort her, when Karen needed a mother and Kenny did not know how to be one. As she gazed out across the Obsidian, which would one day take them back to the lands that were stolen from them, where their mother had been slaughtered, she remembered her last happy memory of  Zaron .

She had been three, or perhaps four, her brother eight at the time. Karen was growing strong in their mother’s belly, and the Lady of  Highpaddock sang to her children and told them stories by the fire.

“Remember, my loves,” she had said. “Remember that a mouse is small, but nimble. It can pull thorns from the paws of lions, and scare away elephants as big as dragons! It can live in fields and castles, eat cheese and grain, and is the gentlest of creatures, so long as it doesn’t nibble your toes.”

She’d grabbed her brother and tickled his feet, and he let out a peal of laughter Kenny had not heard since that night. She had never forgotten her mother’s words about their house sigil and, looking at the Barbarians in the throne room, couldn’t help but wonder how a mouse would fare against a stallion.


	4. Chapter Four

Heidi Turner moved quickly through the halls of the Keep, intent on making it to her room without being spotted. 

She had spent the day as she always did; reading in the library, strolling through the private sections of the gardens and conversing with Mephesto about the on goings in the country. Now she crept silently through the royal chambers, praying she did not run into the Queen Regent. 

Lyana Cartman, once a great beauty, had aged past her prime well before her son took the throne. Once he had secured his kingdom, he had worked towards extending his mother’s life far past what would be considered natural. Whatever strange magics that kept him young would not work on her, it seemed, as the Queen Regent was a monstrous sight to behold. An old, wizened husk, the woman’s hair had all but disappeared, only a few white strands still clung to her head. She was going blind in one eye, the iris dulling to a milky white as it slowly decomposed. She was missing most of her teeth, and did not walk through the castle, but shambled, spitting and shrieking in some strange, foreign tongue. One night, hiding in a secret alcove built into the keep hundreds of years ago, Heidi had witnessed the dark magics sustaining the Queen. 

She had come to suspect it for some time, knowing what she knew about the older, arcane arts and the properties of Elvish blood. She knew from  Mephesto that every few weeks, an elf beggar or thief disappeared from Garrison’s  Landing, and that a cell in the dungeons was occupied shortly after. She knew the red liquid her Queen drank was not wine, and she knew that it had been happening for at least sixty years or more. 

She stashed the books Mephesto gave her in her wardrobe, hidden under a pile of silks, and slipped into the secret alcove that allowed her a look into the King’s chambers.

There she saw the wizard sitting at his table, the usual banquet of food gone in favor of a clutter of maps and documents laid out. The new Hand was there as well, his handsome face pale and worn from the burdens of his new position. Heidi had sympathized when she heard who was to replace Lord  Malkinson , but was unsurprised. Though they had little interactions previously, she knew the King thought of the Alpha Knight as a close friend and ally . 

“He’s got the support of  Skeri , and has been fighting battles along the Titan’s Crest,” Cartman growled. “Donovan is moving on  Highpaddock , and there is no one of House Black there to defend it.”

“Your Grace,” the hand spoke, his normally strong deep voice sounded thin and weary. “The Titan’s Crest holds little gain for the Donovan army; the villages there have few resources and fewer men of fighting ability. Sheepherders will do them no good.”

“It doesn’t matter!” The King roared. “He’s winning! He’s beating our troops with the odds in our favor five to one!  Everywhere you look on this map, there are Daggers and Plovers, flanking us.  If he takes  Highpaddock , he’ll have control of our weapons, our trade with the West AND all of our gold. We can’t let that happen.”

Heidi ducked farther down as the King crossed the room, passing by her hiding spot. “Call your father’s banners, it’s time  Marshhollow joined in this fight.”

Stan opened his mouth to protest, but merely sighed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Heidi crept back to her room, processing the information she had just been given. 

“So, it’s true, we’re going to war.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As  Firkle pushed through the crowd in the Grand Atrium, elbowing classmates and shoving his way to the front of the mob, he was greeted by the sight of the Kingsguard attempting to restrain Henrietta. 

“By order of the Wizard King Cartman, first of his name, for the crime of black magic, I sentence you to die.”

Henrietta screamed, shouting spells at the guards and clawing at them with her nails. Snakes spewed from her skirts, crows descended upon the knights, but it was no use; with one fell swoop,  Ser Thomas Black removed Henrietta’s head from her shoulders. As her body slumped and fell,  Firkle disappeared back through the crowd, running as fast as he could from the scene. 

A hand shot out and grabbed him.

“Come, child! Quickly!” Acolyte  Maron pulled the boy into his side, moving quickly through the halls.

The halls of the Academy were made of stone, large pillars upholding even larger archways leading to classrooms and balconies, polished marble gleaming as the sunlight streamed in. They turned down a passageway that curved and winded this way and that way, the open, airy halls and archways turning to small, cavernous dungeons.  Maron snapped his fingers and ignited the nearest torch, grabbing it as they passed.  


“Magic isn’t dying from  Zaron because there’s no more dragons,”  Firkle mumbled.

“It’s because the Wizard King kills anyone who might pose a threat to his power,” the professor finished, his expression grim.

They descended the secret staircases that lead to a small marina off of the river, a familiar face greeting them as they did.

“Filmore!”  Firkle cried out ,  relief flooding him at the sight of his friend .

“We must hurry, before they find you too,” the warrior said as he lifted the mage into a large boat. Maron joined them, and Filmore cast off from the marina. The boat drifted lazily out of the Academy’s gates, moving east towards the Stillwater.

“I know a place we can go,”  Maron informed  Filmore . “Can I trust you to protect us until we get there?”

Filmore nodded, his dark brown eyes somber. “I will protect you both for as long as I am able.”

Firkle glanced backward to the hulking figure of the Academy, willing himself not to cry.

_ I’ll be okay,  _ he thought.  _ I have my friends and my magic; no Wizard King is getting rid of me. _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“The Blacks are all in Kupa,”  Brimmy informed Craig. “House  White is defending  Highpaddock in their absence.”

“And what of their defenses,” Clyde asked, annoyed that the spy was not speaking directly to him.

“Little to none, m’lord. They are not prepared for an attack from a considerable power.”

“Your Grace,” Craig corrected. “King Donovan is no longer a lord.”

“Apologies, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.”

Clyde grunted in acknowledgement. “Have your team infiltrate the castle, capture the  White family on my  command .”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Clyde turned to Craig as the spy left, his eyes glimmering with a passion Craig had not seen since their childhood. “We’re doing it, old friend. We’re taking on the Wizard and winning.”

“There are still plenty of battles we still must take,” Craig said flatly, before offering a small, thin smile. “Your grandfather would be proud.”

“As would yours, he was a pain in the ass too, if I recall.”

“Most Tuckers are.”

Clyde laughed, and the sound was joyous. “When this is all over, we must take as much mead as we can carry and drink to those old dead kings and their memory.” Craig smiled once more.

“ It would be my honor, Your Grace .”


	5. Chapter Five

It had been at least a month since the khalasar had departed from Stonecliff with the McCormicks, the army a day’s ride from the nearest city. Karen had lived a life of leisure, for the most part, however she had proven herself to be a hardy little girl, embracing the challenges of the road with ease.

The ship that had carried House McCormick and the Khal’s blood riders from Stonecliff to the sandy shores of Barbaria was small, Karen having to sit in her sister’s lap during the short ride. The bulk of the Khalasar met their leader at the shore, a few thousand men and women in an array of rough linens and dull leathers. The men and women alike had braids intricately woven through their hair, some of them with feathers and beads.

Khal Mole greeted them with his rough language, which Karen quickly deduced to be Old Orcish, a language lost and forgotten to most of the world.

“They’re from the Fallen Cities,” she whispered to her sister, who nodded and shushed her.

_We_ _march_ _on_ _Orcton_, she could make out. _We_ _take_ _their_ _lands_ _and_ _build_ _our_ _army_. _We_ _take_ _Barbosht_ _and_ _all_ _its_ _riches_.

Karen looked to her siblings. Kenny seemed to understand about as much as she did, their mother having been of Orcish descent, but Kevin was completely unaware of what was being said.

The Khal’s men brought the McCormicks two horses: a white mare which they handed Kevin, and a grey stallion for the sisters to share. Kevin fussed over his worn, almost tattered garments as he mounted, and Kenny threw herself onto the creature, not a thought spared for her thin silks. Karen was lifted by the Khal onto Kenny’s steed, the man offering her a wry smirk as he did.

As they rode, most of the khalasar walking alongside the royal members, Karen thought back to her room in Stonecliff, to what her sister had said.

_We are not Barbarians; we are nobility from a faraway place. They will no doubt do things differently than us, and we must do our best not to offend their customs._

Karen wasn’t worried about herself or her sister; her brother, however, had a bothersome talent for saying and doing all the wrong things. She knew that if anyone from their castle was to offend the Barbarians, it would be him.

She looked up at the sky, watching as the sunset painted the horizon red and purple. She fiddled with the pendant on her necklace, the head of a mouse carved from Elven silver, and made a promise to herself to do all she could to keep the peace between her siblings.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As Token finished thrusting into his wife, his canting becoming slow and shallow, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, a thin sheen of sweat covering him. He looked to Wendy, marveling at how lovely the girl looked, even so disheveled.

The two had wed after Token’s quelling of the Western rebellion, having only his family and House Marshwalker at his side. Few other houses were willing to aid the McCormicks, many still resentful of Lord Stuart’s marrying to an Orcish girl from Barbaria. The eldest children had inherited her features: strong brows, wide mouths and slanting noses. The youngest was a mere six years old, none could say what she would grow up to look like, though none of them had their mother’s striking red hair.

Token had been friends with the McCormicks before the uprising, and secretly was relieved they had not been executed after it ended. Though he sympathized, the increasing of his family’s wealth and position made him quickly forget about them. His marriage to Lady Wendy Testaburger had been purely political; she was highborn with a good family name and, upon the deaths of her parents, was orphaned and left in the care of the Marshwalkers. She had inherited her parent’s sapphire mines after their deaths and, upon marrying, passed that inheritance along to her husband. Marrying him secured her position not only financially, but socially, as the Blacks were an old family and held clout even before obtaining Highpaddock.

Becoming the Lady of a great city, once a great kingdom, made her immensely powerful, so long as she could control her husband.

“You’re quiet,” Wendy muttered. Token knew she spoke not out of concern, but out of curiosity.

“Did you ever think our marriage would last?”

“Of course, it is expected of us. I am shocked, however, that you’ve not fathered any bastards.”

He shot her a look.

“Lady Nicole always speaks so highly of you,” Wendy continued. “I wonder if it is from personal experience?”

“I am promised to you,” Token growled. “To hell with everyone else.”

Wendy held his eyes with a steady gaze.

“Good. When Donovan’s rebellion is silenced, perhaps we ought to convince the king of Lord White’s suitability for Northhelm.”

Token glanced at her curiously. “Your cousin, Lord White?”

“The very same. Our family would control the West AND North, quite the advantageous position, hmm?” She stretched and reached for her robes, bundling up and crossing over to the balcony.

She gazed out onto the city, the torches on the guard walls glittering like orange jewels underneath a canopy of diamond stars. When she spoke, she did not look at her husband, her violet eyes still trained on the world outside the Keep.

“We have held Highpaddock and worked in service of the King for six years, and have been static in this position for too long.”

Token got up to join her, forgoing his robes and walking up naked beside her.

“You wish to hold more territory. Are you planning a rebellion of your own, my lady?”

She turned to him and brushed her lips against his neck, her hand creeping up towards his cock. “We can have the whole kingdom in our pocket; just you and me.”

Token grabbed at her breasts, his vigor renewing.

“Yes, just you and me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Hand of the King was a prestigious title, going back as far as kings and the lands they ruled. The Hand was oft chosen by the man’s cunning, sense of justice, and loyalty to the crown. Stan felt of these qualities held only one; his sense of justice was far superior to those around him.

He believed exiling the McCormicks instead of slaughtering them was the right thing to do, he believed killing the previous Hand under suspected treason was wrong, given the man had had no trial. When he learned of the execution of Henrietta Biggle, a young woman studying magics at the Academy, he was absolute in his convictions: the girl did not deserve it.

There was nothing to be done for her, save return her body to her family for a proper burial. The Kingsguard that had been present during the execution spoke of the miraculous things the girl had done in her attempt to fight back. Ser Marcus Preston had puncture wounds from crows pecking at his flesh, Ser Daniel Tanner had been burned when the witch set fire to those too close to her.

Thomas had drunk himself into a stupor that night, finding Stan in his chambers and mourning the sin he committed.

“She weren’t no soldier,” he had blubbered. “Jus’ a girl, jus’ a girl....”

Stan wasn’t sure what to make of the Donovan rebellion. The north had just cause for rebelling, they had been on the brink of starvation for three consecutive winters, and his reports spoke of even worse harvests in recent months. All of Zaron knew that the large expanse that made up the North could only truly be ruled by Northern men. King Cartman knew this, and had left House Donovan as wardens of the north in hopes that his claim would not be challenged so readily by the hardy folk. He had been somewhat correct, as the north had not rebelled in the last century of the wizard’s rule, until the hunger of his people became too great, and then Donovan had received the support of House Tucker.

The Tuckers and the Marshwalkers had never been allies, but neither had they been enemies. The families detested one another, but kept it to themselves. In the event of two members of the opposing families meeting at a celebration, civility was kept with distance.

Now House Tucker was considered traitors to the crown, and the king grew more and more paranoid with each family and faction that defected to Donovan’s cause.

“The McCormicks hadn’t stood a chance,” he muttered as he paced in the war room, Stan looking from the king to the maps and back to the king. “They had only the support of the Titan’s Crest and the hill tribes, but Clyde Donovan has the entire north, Skeri, the Titan’s Crest AND I hear he’s negotiating an alliance with Pyrus! We have to stop him!”

The King whirled around to glare at his Hand. “Where is your father and his armies, hmm? Why have we not received word of your family’s fealty?”

“My father is a drunk, your Grace, you have said as much yourself. He cannot be counted upon.”

“Then why should I count upon you?”

Stan grit his teeth, his expression hard. “You appointed me, Cartman, I did not ask for this position. I would happily give it to any bastard of Zaron.”

There was a loud crack, and Stan was slammed to the ground by an invisible force.

The wizard’s expression was grim as he looked on his fallen victim, his staff glowing with magical energy. “Careful now, Marshwalker, I am still your king.”

The king turned to the window, gazing out onto the sea. “We can’t afford any more delays. In a fortnight, we march on Donovan’s troops.”


	6. Chapter Six

The Inn of the Giggling Donkey was, most delicately put, a tavern of ill repute. Gambling, whoring and knife fights were common within its stone walls.  There were few windows and only two entrances to the inn, the straw on the roof thin and falling apart.  A three days sailing and nearly a five days ride from  Kupa , the inn was a paradise for the three weary travelers who entered it. 

Firkle noted that even during the daylight hours, there were men drinking themselves stupid in the darkest corners of the tavern. A fire was roaring on the farthest wall, and  Firkle was instantly reminded of his first successful spell.

Maron moved to the bartender, speaking to him in a low, hushed voice. The man nodded, and left for one of the rooms in the back.  Firkle sat by the fire, warming his hands, Filmore keeping close guard beside him. A shout was heard from one of the tables, then laughter.  Firkle turned to see a group of men playing a strange game with wooden cards, runes etched into either side of each piece. The boy was slightly taken aback to note some of the men playing  were  not men, but in fact elves. One player threw down his card, and the runes began to glow green. Several other cards began to glow as well, and one exploded in one man’s hand. The others laughed and jeered while the man cursed and threw six gold pieces into a modest pile already on the table. 

Maron gathered the two and hurried them along after the barkeep.

“I didn’t know there were elves in Zaron,”  Firkle spoke, careful to keep his voice down. The  Drow elves of  Larnion were mostly peaceful, however they were known to be quick to insult and had  unusually good hearing.

“There are small pockets of them lining the ports,” Maron whispered back. “Some are traders, most are defectors.”

“Defectors?”

“The Crown’s Law in  Larnion is stronger and swifter than in Zaron; one does not stay a free criminal in  Larnion for long.”

Firkle nodded. “Better to leave  than to be gaoled .”

“Precisely.”

The three were given a small room to share, the only furniture being a fair-sized bed pushed to the far wall and a spindly chair underneath a grimy window. Maron began to unpack the few things he had managed to take before fleeing the Academy while  Firkle loitered in the hallway, looking out at the men playing cards.

“F-f, F-f- faa - ascinating stuff, huh?” a voice spoke behind him, making him jump.

An elf with shaggy brown hair and a lopsided grin stood beside him. He was held upright by two wooden supports that looked to move his mangled legs for him.  Firkle meant not to stare, but found it trying.

“Th-the game is called  _ Virmonas _ , the p-pl-players match the runes on their c-cards on the table, with a few attack cards m-mixed in. O-once an a-attack card is played, the r-rest out of the d-deck exp- plode . It’s a tricky game, and u-unfortunately, y-you need an e-elf to make the cards work.”

“ So, they work using magic?”

“Yep, I’m sure you could play without an elf, o-only then you ’d miss the f-fireworks.”

Another card exploded at the table, and the players cheered.

The crippled elf led  Firkle into his room and smiled brightly at Maron. “F-finally got yourself out of the d-dungeons, I see.”

“Dungeons would be preferable, there are no students there.” The two embraced as old friends, Maron making space on the bed for the elf to sit. “ Firkle , this is my dear friend Jimmy, a bard of Larnion.”

“ _ Royal  _ bard, and of  Larnion n-no more.”

Firkle blinked. “Did you defect?”

Jimmy laughed. “Oh no, I w-was exiled. I p-performed a r-rather  _ raunchy  _ tune at court, and offended the q-queen greatly, though the two p-princes enjoyed it very much.”

“Jimmy is very capable with songs of enchantment, perhaps he’ll give you a lesson.”

“Oh yes! I  th-thiink you’ll l-like it! I have a m-magical lute from the r-royal family I managed to k-keep, you c-ca- caaan use it, if you l-like.”

Firkle gave a soft smile, but his expression sobered. “I don’t think we’ll be staying very long.”

Maron shook his head. “Only a night or two, then we must head North for Marshhollow; you have family there, correct?”

Firkle snorted. “Barely; a cousin I’ve never met and an aunt too old to remember her name.”

“It’ll have to do; there’s no place for you  s outh of the Moorish tribes. You and I will be wanted for defection in the capital soon, no doubt.” 

Firkle nodded, turning to Jimmy. “I hope to learn as much as I can from you whilst I am  still here.”

Filmore joined the room, making the small space feel cramped. “It is getting late, you two must rest.”

Maron nodded. “I’ll see the bard to his room.”

When the two were gone, Filmore turned to Firkle. “How are you feeling?”

“I am weary, and still on edge from these past few days, but fine.”

Filmore nodded. “I’ll be stationed outside if you need me.”

“Thank you, Filmore. For protecting us.”

Filmore offered him a small smile. “Of course,  Firkle .”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Heidi shuddered as she watched the Queen Regent slurp the contents of her  ever - present goblet, ignoring the food and wine set out by the servants. She wiped at her mouth roughly with her sleeve, further staining the filthy silks she wore.

She looked to Heidi, growling and gargling shrill, nonsensical words to the girl.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Heidi had learned quickly that it was best to simply agree, mollifying the wretched woman. 

She had grown to resent her place in the castle; forced to keep the Queen Regent company as she slipped further into madness. Heidi had hoped to leave one day, return to the little village in the Titan’s Crest from where she hailed , until the Wizard King had come to her, and informed her that they were to be married. 

“You will be the Queen of Zaron,” he said, his beady eyes roaming hungrily over her form. “You will be mine, and you will swell with my child a hundred times over.”

Heidi shuddered again at the thought. It was true that as a young girl, she had dreamed of someday being queen, but she had also hoped for gallant knights and terrifying dragons and many other things that seemed to be long dead in this world.

The queen spilled the contents of her cup and screeched at  her servant to bring her more. Heidi’s face darkened as she gazed at the loathsome woman before her.

_ When I am Queen,  _ she thought,  _ I’ll have this abomination rotting in a cell for all time.  _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The castle of  Marshhollow was the pinnacle of  Zarnon architecture. Large stone towers, lancet windows and arched gates decorated the concentric castle, with two large hound statues standing guard at the drawbridge. 

Lord Randy of House  Marshwalker cared little for the splendor of his home, preferring to find elation in drink and frivolity. He played music alongside bards, gambled with  sellswords and, more often than not, drank himself into a stupor before sundown. 

As he shuffled through his halls, a goblet of wine in hand and his grandfather’s crown on his head, he spoke to Lord Nelson, his friend and trusted advisor.

“Have we enough food and wine for the guests?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the entertainment?”

“Already found, my lord.”

“Good, I want everything prepared for the  Feegan’s arrival.”

The two moved to the grand hall, where the servant s had cleared the furniture and begun cleaning in preparation for the upcoming festivities. 

As Lord Marsh observed their work, Lord  Stotch , one of his bannermen, entered the hall.

“News from your son, my Lord.”

Randy scoffed. “News from the king, you mean.”

Steven handed him the scroll. “Our troops are needed to fight in the war against the Donovan rebellion, and we are to stop our shipments of grain heading north.”

“And why should I lose my men and my trade on the whims of the king? Hmm? My men will stay here and guard what is ours, to hell with the king and his wars.”

Randy turned from Steven’s stricken expression. “If that is all, Lord  Stotch , I have to attend to my daughter; the upcoming festivities have left her a bit out of sorts.”

He shambled out of the hall and down a long corridor, following the paintings of his ancestors to the quarters where his family slept. He knocked once on the door of his eldest child’s room, entering when he heard her grunt from the other side of the door.

Lady Shelly Marsh was, as the unwashed serfs of the villages liked to say, a great hulking beast of a woman. At least six feet tall with large hands and feet, a strong back and shoulders, and blunt features that had many guessing her to be an Orc’s bastard. She was as comely as a grizzly bear, and as gracious and kind as one, too. She sulked and screamed, hurling abuses at any who dared come in her presence. The exception of these behaviors being only the Feegan’s eldest son, Larry, whom Shelly had been smitten with since childhood. 

Lord  Feegan owned a great deal of land between  Marshhollow and  Highpaddock , as well as a considerable fortune that rivaled that of House Black. Their sigil was a tortoise, and although Randy found it to be a rather uninspired choice, their banners could be seen all through the south of the country. It was these factors, coupled with Larry’s unabashed admiration of Shelly, that had brought the two Lords to come to an agreement of a marriage between the two. 

“Things are going well, my sweet,” Randy commented, sitting next to his daughter on her bed. “With good fortune and favorable weather, House  Feegan will be here in three  days  time .”

“I just want this to be over with, Father,” Shelly spat. “This whole wedding is just for you and Lord  Feegan to make alliances.”

“Now, Shelly, I-”

“You don’t understand! Larry’s father beats him and belittles him, and you want his loyalty just so you can have more territory!”

Randy’s eyes hardened. “Don’t you speak of things you do not understand, Shelly, especially in front of prying ears. You will marry Larry  Feegan and mere our houses, and you will be happy about it.”

Shelly scowled at her father, but said nothing further. Randy took another swig of his wine, bidding his daughter goodnight and making his way to his chambers, to rouse his wife from slumber to claim his right as her husband.


End file.
